


Don Falcone Sent You, I Presume

by spikedaft



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:11:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4509096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikedaft/pseuds/spikedaft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place immediately after the Gotham episode where Zsasz rescues Oswald from Fish Mooney and Butch Gilzean</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don Falcone Sent You, I Presume

Zsaz returned to the club to find Cobblepot still on his knees, wheezing with delighted laughter. Victor grinned and approached the other man, who was nearly senseless with mirth. 

“You liked that, huh?” he asked, sidling close.

“Too rich, my friend,” giggled Oswald, who was flushed with sweet, strong drink. “Truly. Don Falcone sent you, I presume.”

Victor grinned. “Nope.”

Oswald stopped chuckling and gaped for a moment. “He didn’t send you? Then why—“

“Shut up,” said Zsaz, and bent down to grab the other man’s jaw in his hands, tilting the boy’s face toward his own. Lovely. “I do what I do,” he whispered, practically breathing the words into the smaller man’s mouth, “and I do it when I want to do it. No man owns me. Does any man want to be owned by another? You tell me, Oswald.” 

All Cobblepot could do was sit on his knees, bad leg uncomfortably bent, and breathe in the warmth of Victor’s breath. It smelled like mint gum. Oswald’s mouth watered. Zsaz shook him briefly. 

“Tell me, little bird.”

“Y-yes,” gasped Oswald. 

Victor bared his straight white teeth in a grin. “Yes, what?”

“Some men like to be owned—ugh!” he gasped as the other man grasped him roughly, “…b-by another, even…even if just for the time being.”

“Yeah,” said Zsaz, quirking up the corner of his mouth. “Sometimes they do.” He reached into his waistband, not noticing Oswald’s rapt stare, and removed the gun he held there, placing it upon the very bar that Cobblepot had caressed so lovingly just a half-hour before. The younger man met his eyes, arctic blue glaciers meeting a wave of stoic black, and suddenly each one felt as though he could not look away from the other.

“You have nice eyes,” smirked Victor, playful but aware. His fingers were starting to twitch.

“Yeah—Yes, y- you too,” murmured Cobblepot, who flushed slightly and looked away, embarrassed.

The gesture was appreciated; it certainly attracted Zsaz’s gaze. A gesture that was pretty; remote. Passively inviting the eyes.

Definitely learned.

Zsaz found himself grinning again, and gripped the short hair on the back of Oswald’s head, drawing his face in close.

“Mooney teach you that, huh?” he breathed, noting the way the younger man’s eyes drooped with pleasure when the minty warmth hit his chilly skin, instantly dilating his pupils into black pools rimmed with icebergs. “She teach you to look pretty like that? For customers?”

“I…”

“Tell me, little bird,” hissed Victor. “Tell me.”

“Mmmmf, yeah,” Cobblepot practically panted, relenting. “S—she did. Yeah.”

“Found you out of some alley. Taught you how to be pretty. Taught you how to attract the patron’s attention.”

“…Yes, Mr. Zsasz.”

“Yeah.” Victor smiled, the cat that had caught the canary. “That’s why she hates you so much, hmm? Did you break her heart? One of her orphans betrayed her?”

“S—she…”

“She taught you how to be a good lover, didn’t she?” breathed Zsaz, pulling the younger man closer to his body. “You don’t have to lie; I knew she had something with you. She did with others before you. I knew about you a long time ago.”

Cobblepot found those dark eyes again and peered into them, searching. “How did you know about me?”

“Hmmm…dunno. A rumor, maybe. Then again, maybe not.”

“Tell me,” Oswald hissed, gripping the tails of Zsaz’s shirt, tugging aggressively. “Were you a patron? Do I not remember you; have I forgotten you?”

Zsaz merely chuckled. “You were the talk of the town when Mooney picked you up, didn’t you know that?”

The tugging stopped. “No, I—I didn’t…”

“Well, makes sense. She kept that from you so you wouldn’t swell your head up. Oh, but was she proud, Penguin. You know that? She kept you under wraps, sure, but when she was out without you it was practically the only thing she talked about. She never named you, of course; she called you ‘the boy’, but I knew the moment I saw you. I knew it was you. The way she looked at you when your back was turned. The way you looked at her.”

Oswald gave a small cry as Victor seized him flush tightly against his own body, giving the younger man no doubt of his intentions. He could feel it, and he hadn’t done such a thing for so long…“M—Mr. Zsa—“

“Victor,” interrupted Zsaz, smiling gently against pale, unmarred skin. “You call me Victor, do you understand?” Quickly, he dipped into a pocket and brought out one of his many concealed blades. This one was the box cutter. Victor only used the box cutter on people he deemed important. One of those people, of course, was himself.

Quickly, swiftly, he swooped up and under Cobblepot’s dress shirt with it, the blade severing buttons the entire way, and found his collarbone. He dug the blade in between the jut of bone and dragged down slightly, relishing the cry of pain he had elicited from Fish Mooney’s own private selection. Still, he stopped and cocked his head. “Enough?”

“N…No!” whimpered Oswald. Though he expressed discomfort, nothing in his body language told Victor that he wanted to stop. “I…I want more, but… Mr. Zsaz…please promise you won’t…you won’t kill me…”

Zsaz laughed the entire time he stripped the boy, who bowed before him like a geisha and trembled like a beaten dog. Victor quickly stripped off his shirt and jacket and began running his hands up the boy’s naked sides, feeling the jut of ribs, the prominence of bone that announced the boy’s malnutrition. He caressed the skin of Oswald’s back, feeling thin lines from god knew what. Still, it was sumptuous, the skin pale and soft and practically glowing under the yellow and red lights of Mooney’s former nightclub. It felt like velvet, the skin, though Zsaz could feel the lines of scars running along Oswald’s sides and back, clear up to the back of his neck. Oswald began to shiver, and made to back away, until Victor seized him by the back of the head and crashed his lips onto the younger man’s, at the same time grabbing a handful of buttock and squeezing vigorously. He licked out the younger man’s mouth, tasting cigarettes and top-shelf liquor and something sultry that he could not, in all his experience, place at all.

Cobblepot moaned loudly, but his lips were smothered by Victor’s mouth and the sounds traveled only into the serial killer’s own lungs, turning him rock hard instantly. Cobblepot’s hand gripped helplessly at his chest, his biceps. Victor, immensely pleased, dipped his head and bit down on Cobblepot’s collarbone. Oswald’s yelp of pain was also swallowed, as though an elixir, and Victor began to pant, shedding the rest of his clothing as well as his protégé’s, and found himself roughly propping the boy up on a stool and wrapping his thin legs, one horribly bent, around his hips.

He entered the tight sweetness of the boy child and cried out loud, as Cobblepot exclaimed at the intrusion, again deep into Victor’s heaving lungs. Unexpected, though, was the hard bite onto the side of Victor’s neck, drawing blood. Victor slapped Cobblepot but immediately after locked lips with him again, and for the next twenty minutes they rocked together, crying out into each other’s mouths, vicious but aware of the other, matching strides, each crying out as certain parts were hit, and by the end of it both came harder than either ever had in their lives, at the same time, Victor’s seed inside Oswald and Oswald’s on Zsazs’ belly. They lay panting together for some time, perhaps hours, until finally Victor released the boy and began to dress.

“Sorry, kid,” he said, and truly meant it this time. “Other business to attend to.”

Oswald watched him for a while, legs swinging like a child’s. “What of this?” he asked finally, as Zsaz at last finished dressing, fixing his cufflinks. “Do I owe you, or you me, or are we even, or…where do we go from here?”

Victor gave a white-toothed grin. “We’ll have to see what the future brings, kid,” he chuckled, and without another word left the club, his females in tow. They were tittering.

Oswald made himself presentable again, nervously watching the entrances should some foe return, and finished the champagne because he could think of nothing else to do.

What he did not know was that Zsaz watched the club until Oswald was long gone, obeying some inner emotional instinct to keep the kid safe.

For now.


End file.
